


In My Veins

by adamwhatareyouevendoing



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-30 09:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14494404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamwhatareyouevendoing/pseuds/adamwhatareyouevendoing
Summary: When Frank regains consciousness, he becomes aware of the cold, hard press of metal against his side, and the warmth of a hand in his.Continuation of their final scene in 4x03.





	In My Veins

**Author's Note:**

> We rewatched 'A White World Made Red' again at the weekend, and I am still not over Frankie Thatcher and his girl.

When Frank regains consciousness, he becomes aware of the cold, hard press of metal against his side, and the warmth of a hand in his.

He blinks his eyes open blearily, taking a moment to adjust to the harsh clinical light of the room. Magdalena is sitting next to him, perched on the edge of the operating table, watching him intently.

“You have saved me,” she says, in her sweetly accented voice, as soon as she sees that he is awake. “That is what the doctor said.”

“Er—” Frank manages, raising his head to look for the Captain. He moves too quickly for his depleted blood to catch up with the movement, his head spinning.

Magdalena must understand what he seeks, because she says, “He is outside, talking to the policeman. He said you would explain?”

He sends a silent curse in Jackson’s direction, trying to find his footing in the face of Magdalena’s earnest, beseeching eyes. It is not that he doesn’t want to tell her, but in explaining it, he fears he will admit more than is proper considering the length of their acquaintance.

“I’m hardly a doctor,” he tries.

Magdalena, it seems, does not mind. “He said it was your idea,” she presses. “He said, ‘That man there, he is your saviour. It’s him you should be thanking.’ He is right?”

Frank looks down at his arm, at the bandage just above his elbow which now covers the small wound where the tube had connected him to Magdalena. His earlier fear rises within him again, recalling the sight of her, deathly pale and still, lying on the operating table.

“He is,” he agrees, and steels himself. “Do you know why the French doctor wanted your blood?”

“His daughter was sick. He said I could save her.”

“Yes, your blood was a match for hers. Don’t ask how, I don’t understand it either,” he grins, and is blessed to see her answering smile. “He was taking your blood from you, putting it into her, and that would make her better.” His hand clenches into a tight fist in his lap. “But what he didn’t tell you was that he was going to take it all. He was going to kill you.” His voice breaks on the final word.

Magdalena gently squeezes the hand that is wrapped around hers, a light pressure of her fingers against his.

“But he didn’t,” she says, and he cannot believe that she is trying to reassure him, when she’s the one that nearly died. By rights, she should be the one gripped by fear, and he should be the strong one, not the other way around.

“No,” he agrees, swallowing around the lump in his throat to tell her of the Captain’s earlier experiment with the blood; how he was match for the hanging man, like she was. “So, if we were both a match for him—”

“We are a match for each other, too?” she concludes, looking down at him with the kind of wonder he might have shared earlier, had he not been inconsolable with worry for her.

“Exactly,” he says, an attempt at a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, but the sickening image of the blood spurting from the wound in her neck holds it at bay. “You had already lost so much, by the time I worked it out… Thankfully we weren’t too late.” 

Her eyes drop to the bandage wrapped around his arm. “You gave your blood to me.”

He nods, even though it is not a question—even though she knows. He finds himself reaching out to clasp her free hand, where it rests on her lap, his fingers curling around the inside of her wrist. He can feel her pulse there, beating strong against his fingertips.

It is strange to think that it is his blood running in her veins, keeping her alive. Strange, but reassuring in a way he cannot find words to express.

“You are hurt,” she murmurs, and he realises that with the position of his hand she cannot help but see the bruises blooming across his knuckles. He marvels at the concern in her voice—concern for him. He is thankful she cannot see the sores on his other hand, from where his fist had connected with Probyn’s cheekbone.

“It’s nothing,” he tells her, in a manner he hopes is reassuring rather than dismissive. “Just a tussle in the cells.”

Her eyes flash to his, and he sees the fear in them before she can cover it. He hates that he is the one to put that expression there.

“It was the doctor from Newgate,” he tries to explain. “The one who took your blood for testing. We realised that you were still in danger, and if he _knew_ something—” His voice drops out from under him.

It is enough. Magdalena is no longer looking at him with fear, but now she seems puzzled.

“You did it for me,” she says quietly, “as you did this for me.” She looks down again, seeming transfixed by his hand around hers, and her hand in his; the bandages on both of their arms. “Why?”

His breath hitches on a shaky inhale. This is the moment he had known they were heading towards since he woke.

“You are like no one I’ve ever met before,” he confesses. It seems like there are no words capable of justifying the unexpected suddenness of his affection for her.

It is hard to believe that, mere days ago, he had not understood what drew others to this place—why they would leave all that they knew and come here—when all it had taken was for Magdalena to be her strong, brave, and refreshingly honest self. Magdalena, who also knows what it is to be driven to the furthest ends to survive.

“I found I couldn’t lose you,” he hears himself saying. “Not when I’d only just met you.”

It feels like it is too much, too honest, too open, but Magdalena does not look at him with surprise.

“You will not lose me,” she says, halfway between fierce and gentle. “You are a part of me now, just as the blood running through my veins is a part of me, and not only because that blood is yours.”

He is stunned by the force of her conviction, the depth of feeling her words inspire.

Before he can gather his thoughts enough to reply, the door opens. Jackson is leading the way, blocking Drake’s view of the room, and Frank is thankful to him for giving them time to spring apart. Jackson’s look is knowing, but Frank is not ashamed that he has seen them.

Magdalena, it seems, has unfinished business with the policeman. “Do you need to question me further, Inspector, or may I return to my lodgings?” she asks Drake archly.

Drake is silent for a moment, considering, and Frank feels his heart seize before the man turns to him. “See she is returned safely, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, hoping that he sounds authoritative rather than relieved.

Jackson makes to follow after Drake’s departure but turns as he reaches the door.

“Make sure to take it easy, both of you,” he says, looking between them with undisguised mischief in his eyes. “At least for a couple of days.” He accompanies this with a wink, then immediately shuts the door behind himself.

In the silence that follows the Captain’s departure, Frank aches to close the distance between himself and Magdalena once more, but finds he has lost his nerve in the wake of the interruption. Instead, he collects his jacket and hat from the table where he discarded them.

The envelope of money lies untouched on the side. Magdalena eyes it warily, as though she has no intention of picking it up.

“It was not meant for me,” she says, when she catches him looking. “I was not meant to live.”

She is remarkably calm about it—far calmer than he had been, as he watched the life drain from her body right in front of him.

“It’s yours now, nevertheless,” he says, picking up the envelope and pressing it into her reluctant hand. He waits for her fingers to close around it before he continues, “You don’t need to be a seamstress any longer. You could go back to Krakow… If that’s what you want.” He aims for a steady voice and neutral expression and is unsure whether he has achieved either.

Her eyes are bright beneath his gaze; her fingers warm against his own. She has not yet pulled away.

“I told you it was not a kind place anymore.” She looks down at their hands, at the way Frank’s thumb has begun caressing the cracked skin of her knuckles entirely of its own volition. “Home should be a kind place.”

Her eyes are full of softness when she looks up at him once more, and he allows himself a moment to hope that she means what he thinks she does.

“It should,” he agrees quietly, hoping that she can hear more than the simple agreement in his words.

She takes hold of his free hand with hers, returning his caress with her own; her thumb brushing across his fingers in the lightest, yet surest touch.

“My home is here, now,” she says, voice certain and unwavering.

“With me?” he dares to hope, but has to ask—to know beyond all doubt. He cannot see her return to the sweatshop, but will not force her to go anywhere she does not wish to.

Her small answering smile is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen—save for the sight of her, alive, when he had opened his eyes earlier.

“With you,” she confirms. “You have been the only person here to show me any kindness.”

“It doesn’t have to be the reason you stay,” he says. “You’re not indebted to me, in any way.”

There is only certainty in her voice when she smiles, and says, “It is the reason I choose.”

In that moment, he swears that she will know nothing but kindness with him.

 


End file.
